Wednesday, May 21, 2014

Hello, Anger




I had a Miranda July moment yesterday, when I wanted to swear off everything—I mean, EVERYTHING. 

My frustrations had been building all day, and they culminated with me being barely able to control my fisted hand and heavy, sob-filled breathing while driving home from tutoring.

On a personal level, I felt stuck in my unemployment, without a renewed teaching license, destined to sit at home each day and dwell on my failures as a teacher.
Also, my mind had been stewing on the current situation in South Sudan, thinking about the futility of peace agreements, the futility of any sort of aid work, when the country only continues to break down into chaos, being both unwilling and unequipped to help itself.



The major blow came in the afternoon when I heard the news about Sirius, the team dog.  Last year, our team was excited at the thought of having a black lab as a devoted member of the team.  John purchased one in Uganda, with the hopes of using it to guard our compound, play with us during down time, accompany us in our work, and encourage us with love after a hard day.  Sadly, Sirius had a consistently stubborn, bad streak in him—along with a dislike for the local people.  Our whole team had struggled to keep the bad-mannered dog under control since day one.  Once our team left for the states, he was entrusted into the care of our Sudanese friend Rooney.  Unfortunately, Sirius had only been acting worse in recent days, breaking through his small cage and chasing people, even hurting them, on a regular basis.  At this point, there was nowhere else for him to go and no one who could (or would want to) take care of him.  The decision was made for him to be killed. 
           
I know that this was the best decision for the people in the town (and maybe even for the dog, to be honest).  However, what I couldn’t get past was that we had no choice.  There were no other options.  My mind kept repeating, “There are no options…”  It was the lack of choice that angered me.  And I started to think about how this lack of choice is not just in the lives of expats’ dogs.  This fixed and limited fate is dominant across the whole of South Sudan, effecting people of all ages and abilities.  A bright young woman may dream of becoming a scientist or lawyer.  She may have even saved up some money to attend a university.  However, she will end up staying in town because a family member will have just had a baby and there are too many mouths for one person to feed.  Eventually, she will also get pregnant and will never see life beyond her small village.  An older, educated man may have the passion and the vision to create reforms for his state.  He too will never see this dream realized because the corrupt government officials will have stolen whatever small amount of money this country had allocated for development.    

And it isn’t just South Sudan that angers me.  It is this whole, broken world, with its poverty and its hunger, its greed and its corruption.  Nothing is ever working the way it should.



I don’t tend to recognize my own anger very well, often mistaking it for sadness or a “pessimistic attitude.”  Amidst all of my pondering, it took me a while to call my anger what it really was.  When I finally I named it, it covered me like a wave, washing away any grains of hope or grace that tend to cling to.    

Once I got home I chose to do push-ups to vent out my anger.  With burning arms, I opened up my laptop only to read about more bombings in Nigeria. 

F*@*!!!!

I was hit again with the injustice.

More push-ups.  (If this anger keeps up, I will reach my “Linda Hamilton arms” goal sooner than expected.)

Now that I’ve had some time to read, reflect, and sleep through my anger, I just feel tired.  I don’t know what my responsibility is as a citizen of this earth, but I feel the need to do something.  God certainly doesn’t want me to turn a blind eye to injustice.  Proverbs is filled with words of wisdom about seeking justice.  Chapter 29 reads, “The righteous care about justice for the poor, but the wicked have no such concern.  Mockers stir up a city, but wise men turn away anger.” I read on for my daily dose of humility.  “Fear of man will prove to be a snare, but whoever trusts in the Lord is kept safe.  Many seek an audience with a ruler, but it is from the Lord that man gets justice.” 

Maybe I have been putting too much hope in the plans of man, the morality and ethics of a sinful people.  I have also given myself too much credit, when I am just as bad as the rest.  There is nothing I can do here on my own.  I am not in control— and when I realize this, I throw a temper-tantrum like a two year old.  It is amazing that God lovingly chooses to use this spiritual infant for His purposes, as unclear and unpleasant as they may seem to me.   




He who trusts in himself is a fool, but he who walks in wisdom is kept safe. 
-Proverbs 28:26

UPDATE!  At the last minute, a home out in the bush was found for Mister Sirius.  He is now a content and very large dog, working on herding cattle and keeping out nearby hyenas.  Praise God for giving a good home to this pup!


Monday, May 19, 2014

The Other Side






This Vice Magazine report gives a pretty accurate look at the current situation in South Sudan.  It goes into the lives of the rebel fighters, looking at things from their perspective.  So much of this film reminds me of the harshness of this country, the indirection, the need for the gospel, and the need for softened hearts.  This video is very graphic, so use discretion.  



Freccia for Vice





Vice


Freccia for Vice


James Akena/Reuters




Freccia for Vice

Vice


Monday, May 5, 2014

Making a Space




     God is so good to give me gifts, things that make my heart happy and encourage me to jump into life with more vigor.  This past month, He has provided me with something that makes me especially happy—a library card!!  Along with this comes an overdue reunion with my long-lost literary friends and places, words and ideas, all barely stuffed within the confines of the narrow wooden shelves at my local library.  The Jenkintown library is a quirky little place, with low lighting and tight corners.  Piles of books and papers sit in random places on counters and behind desks.  It looks more like the large home collection of some old, reclusive historian who generously opened his home to the public.  And I love it! 

     The first section I wandered into was that of the literary criticisms.  I thumbed through some essays on classic literature and pulled out a small (I get overwhelmed by the big ones) criticism on Lord of the Flies.  I stuffed it under my arm and continued down the list of titles, printed along mismatched layers of book spines.  I came to one that I wasn’t expecting to see in the row—Reading Lolita in Tehran, by Azar Nafisi.  I had heard about this memoir years ago but had forgotten about it.  This day, it practically jumped off the shelf at me; it was just the thing I was craving to explore.

     I recommend this book to anyone who loves literature and cares about social justice. Every page in this story reminds me of the joy and freedom we have in reading.  I am grateful that here in America books are in abundance, and the opportunity to read them is a right for all.  The memoir retells the season in the life of a former Iranian University teacher, who holds a female-only literary class in her small home.  She writes about the personalities and opinions of her eager students, who shed their black burka coverings and reveal the “color of their dreams” each week.  (Think, Virginia Woolf’s “A Room of One’s Own” but on a more intense scale.)  The ladies discuss the themes in books by Austen, Nabokov, Fitzgerald, and James, to name a few, applying these new worlds of ideas to their more harsh world as second-class citizens.  It warms my heart to read about these young women who, every week, travel silently and anonymously to a poor, cluttered living room, where they can shed their veils and speak loudly, creating a just reality, even if only for a couple hours.   

     Like everything else, when I read this book I found myself thinking of South Sudan.  Women have more basic rights in South Sudan; however, they still struggle with disrespect.  There are strong gender roles established in this part of Africa, which leads to a societal disbelief that women could ever be educational or intellectual leaders.  There is a part I love in Nafisi’s memoir, where she and her cheeky students play on Jane Austen’s classic introduction of Pride and Prejudice.  She writes, “It is a truth universally acknowledged that a Muslim man, regardless of his fortune, must be in want of a nine-year-old virgin wife.”  I feel like I could make similar statements, equally as sardonic and disgusted, regarding dating and marriage in South Sudan. 

     I have to catch myself when I start becoming overly cynical, as it reflects a lack of hope that things will ever change for the better.  God has a plan, even though it includes the pain that has haunted (and will continue to haunt) the pages of women’s stories for centuries to come.  I am grateful that in this ugliness God has given us a yearning for something much bigger and much more fulfilling that anything in this world has to offer. 

“I consider that our present sufferings are not worth comparing with the glory 
that will be revealed in us.” -Romans 8:18